Page 78 of Once an Angel
Maori, and he had already seduced his way through their ranks before she arrived. Justin wasn't the pathetic one. She was.
That night on the beach she had allowed him to touch the most tender part of her, both in body and soul. Yet tonight he had clasped another woman to his heart as he had once held her beneath a foggy pearl of
a moon. He had been terribly handsome in his black evening garb, the rakish sweep of his hair over his starched collar oddly endearing. A wretched sense of betrayal closed her throat.
Her hands clenched into fists. She couldn't let the pain in. Not even for an instant. If she did, she would curl into a little ball right there in the street and they would find her in the morning, just another frozen casualty.
She marched on, achingly aware of her every misery. The soles of her boots were soaked through. Her naked fingers were numb. The blowing snow stung her cheeks like tiny shards of glass.
A well-dressed couple passed her. The woman tittered and the man raked her with a contemptuous glance. They knew she didn't belong there. She didn't belong anywhere.
A bakery door opened in a blast of warmth, sugaring the air with the tantalizing aroma of gingerbread. Emily stopped dead, as paralyzed and vulnerable as if she'd been caught naked on Piccadilly Circus.
She crept nearer and pressed her nose to the icy window.
Fresh rows of pastries cooled on the shelves, swollen to bursting with red and amber fruit. Flat scones rolled in cinnamon dotted the gleaming counter. Emily's breath fogged the glass.
Suddenly she was hungry. Wickedly, savagely hungry.
Her father had once taken her to such a place. He had lifted her in his strong arms so she could see the steaming array of treasures, then allowed her to pick three of the most tempting. They had sat in the bakery the rest of that cold winter afternoon, gorging themselves on pie and pastries until they had both retired to bed that night with aching bellies.
The door swung open again. A plump woman with her hands jammed deep in a fur muff was ushered into the bakery by her towering escort. Without hesitation Emily slipped in behind them.
She lurked behind the man's cloak while they made their choices. As the baker turned to fill a sack with powdery crumpets, Emily saw her chance.
She reached over the counter and snatched a fat tart, burning her fingers with its delicious heat.
"Ho there, little lady, you can't do that."
It was not the baker, but the man who spoke, his jovial tones ringing in the silence. Emily fled for the door. She tripped over the threshold and stumbled into the snow.
"Constable! Stop this thief!"
The baker burst out behind her. She scrambled to her feet, but had barely taken two steps when she heard pounding footsteps coming from both directions. The { blast of twin whistles deafened her. She spun around, not I knowing which way to run. Her hesitation cost her dearly. The baker's genial
customer caught her by the back of her dress and lifted her high.
"There now, little one, quit squirming. You mustn't be such a wicked gel. Wicked gels end up in jail,
you know."
He lowered her, but before she could flee, a uniformed constable caught her arm and wrenched it behind her back. The tart slipped from her fingers and plopped into the dirty snow. A heartbroken wail escaped her.
Caught in an implacable tangle of arms and legs, she fought wildly. Her foot connected with the shin of one of the constables with a satisfying thud. The other one howled as her teeth sank into his wrist. The shawl slid from her hair.
"Stand back, lad!" one of them shouted. "We don't need no crowds. She's a rabid wench."
A hand caught in her curls and tugged her head straight back, stilling her struggles. Tears of pain stung
her eyes.
"Aye, a rabid wench she is. But don't worry, gents. I'll muzzle her right and proper."
As Emily stared up into black, beady eyes glistening with lust and greed, she moaned in utter dread.
He jerked her hard against him and grinned at the gaping constables. "Mr. Barney Dobbins, mates, at
yer service."
